


ain't understanding mellow

by fyborg23



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, First Time Bottoming, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 17:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11696841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: In Montreal his schoolboy French clashed with Joual and his urges to play hockey clashed with the suits' urges for punching. Getting stuck with the nicknameFerdinand the Bullwasn't the crowning moment of his career.Nor is getting sent down to buttfuck Halifax.





	ain't understanding mellow

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the same verse as _brass in pocket_ , but very much stands on its own. see [this post for some background!](http://hastybooks.tumblr.com/post/162951921230/okay-i-know-this-is-from-forever-ago-but-i-just)

Halifax and Montreal are alike in that they are both cold and grey. Montreal, however, has the good grace to be _big_ , cold and grey.

Alex jams his car into a parking space and steps out onto. The _main_ street. People are looking. His 1961 Strato-Chief isn’t that terrific-looking. He pats the car hood before he pats his chin and cringes.

Alex’s got growth on his chin from not being able to shave in the dinky hotel he had to crash at halfway through his 1500-kilometer-jaunt and he could use some cheering. He checks his wristwatch-- Sunday afternoon, and the little liquor store across the street is still closed. Halifax reminds him of Beloit, where his family stopped by when the college there was trying to start up a hockey team, and roped his dad in instead of the other horse in _that_ two-horse town. Beloit, too, had committed the twin sins of not having any liquor stores open on Sundays and not carrying anything stronger than pale beer but his old man would have done anything for hockey.

He’s not sure he’s like Alex Sr. He sure wishes, though, that little store was open so he could walk into his hotel room with a not-at-all-discreet paper bag in his hand. Instead, he signs in, spells his name slowly for the desk clerk before the clerk frowns slowly, clearly thinking about _those Soviets_. The clerk’s patriotism stops short of tossing him out onto the streets only after Alex produces a business card with the intertwined CH. Small mercies.

The bed is the shape and size of a saltine cracker. The pale wooden paneling gives the room an rarefied funerary air that clashes with the avocado green and brown quilt stretched across the cracker bed. Alex angles his head down past the grey brick wall blocking half of the window and sees grey sky on grey dumpsters. He turns-- carefully-- past the sink protruding in the middle of the inside wall to set down his suitcase. He only packed for 14 days.

Alex can feel his nose very firmly planted in the metaphorical naughty corner. The bed trembles as he throws himself down on it, then stiffens when he glares at the quilt.

Okay. The bed is _kholodets_ , not crackers.

***

His wandering Russkie-Midwestern childhood means that whenever Alex walks into a locker room he can figure out who are the kings of the hill and who are the weirdos. Alex usually falls in between both ends. In Montreal his schoolboy French clashed with Joual and his urges to play hockey clashed with the suits’ urges for punching. Getting stuck with the nickname _Ferdinand the Bull_ wasn’t the crowning moment of his career.

Nor is getting sent down to buttfuck Halifax.

Alex cringes as he spots the sloping shoulders of Murdoch and sits down far away from him as he can. Murdoch’s the only familiar face in this room and Alex thinks that’s an _omen_ for how his little stay with the Voyageurs is going to go. The room’s crammed full of French, drowning out English, and Alex steels himself as the door bangs open.

Coach-- and there’s no question he’s the coach of this team, with a face like three-months old rye bread and a belly that announces his every move-- frowns as he walks in. The room’s noise crashes. Coach turns his head, ignoring Alex, and glares at the only Black guy in the room. Hell, this guy may be the only Black guy in the entire province, and he raises his eyebrows in polite interest at Alex.

Alex doesn’t even know this guy-- dressing like a _stylish_ coach in that checkered suit-- but he figures he’s got bigger balls than even that hippie with long flowing hair and a lush mustache basking in the shadows in the corner next to the door.

“Pernell,” the coach growls. Pernell-- and who named him that-- smiles mildly like he’s constantly growled at by Coach, “Yes, sir?”

“Do any of these Frenchies know it’s English-only in this room?”

Pernell stands up, “Let me,” pauses, his heavy eyelashes closing as he picks out words. He says in French, “You fucking _settlers_! English for the English man!” before he sits back down, right next to the hippie who has a dangerous smirk on his face that gets folded back into impassiveness as soon as Alex catches it.

The room is littered with amused and exasperated looks. The exasperated looks far outnumber the amused ones. Coach frowns at Pernell and continues yelling at the Voyageurs for losing the previous game. He slams the door behind him as soon as possible–

Almost everyone in the room-- except for Alex and Pernell-- whip out cigarettes out of _nowhere_ and light up.

Pernell nudges Alex, smiles for real this time, “You Gal-- sorry, you’re gonna have to walk me through it.” Alex does, failing to keep his eyes away from Pernell’s mouth and he thinks the hippie in the corner catches Alex at that because it fucking figures that the weirdest weirdo would be a _goalie_.

Pernell introduces himself as _PK_ , which does fits him better. He asks Alex, “You a center?”

“When they let me,” Alex shrugs, and doesn’t miss the way a corner of PK’s lips flatten before he tells him, “You’re in luck. Missing a few slots here, but,” PK raises his voice, “Thank your lucky medals I’m the best D-man on this team–”

The room jeers. PK rubs his eyebrow with his middle finger, “And I’m the assistant coach. So to speak.”

Alex looks at the dented metal door, “Um. Is Coach.”

“Always so bright and cheerful?,” the hippie drawls, leaning forward, his cigarette bouncing with every move of his lips, “Pretty much.”

“Price–” PK says, making the hippie turn towards PK’s voice, “Why are you still smoking?”

Price smiles _at_ Alex, dragging on his cigarette, easy and slow enough that his cheeks hollow around it, his long fingers covering up his mouth, and blows smoke through his nose before he turns to PK and says mournfully, “It’s a filthy, filthy habit, Peeks.”

Alex’s ears burn. He doesn’t want to be jealous of Price getting to call PK _Peeks_.

***

PK and Price are the best players on the Voyageurs. Even Murdoch can admit that. Only reason they aren’t up in the big show is because they might break up a team picture-- or that’s how PK puts it, his arm draped behind Alex as they wait for a beer pitcher to come to their table. PK’s a good coach too, telling Alex _why_ he should carry the puck past the red line instead of trying to dump it, and Alex feels. Small for bitching about getting sent down, because sooner or later the suits are going to fall back in love with his height and weight and call him up.

“Just because the other guy’s in shit up to his eyeballs doesn’t mean that smell in your nose is roses,” Price drawls after listening to Alex try to fumble an apology for being an asshole, pulling on his cigarette before pouring PK the last of the beer. Alex shuts up and watches PK drain his cup dry, his smooth throat bobbing above the flash of his sky-blue shirt collar.

Alex learns how to fight. _Really_ fight. He’s been in fights before, rocketed there by his temper getting lit after getting called _Comrade_ and _pussy_ and _faggot_ and once, because the jerkwad dumped his sister. This time-- he learns where to punch, how to yank the other guy’s sweater over his head to tangle him up so bad he can’t hit back, how to push them back against the boards and let the glass do half of the work.

Kinda like learning how to drive, Alex figures. So many things to do at once before you get hit or die. He fucked up his first car by backing into a tree. Fighting goes better; the only marks he gets after fighting lessons are a black eye and a cut lip. Price looks Alex over when he skates by in full gear, his long hair fluttering in the cold air, “Can you even afford a steak to put over that shiner?”

“Tenderloin,” Alex retorts.

PK smacks the ice with his stick, “All that money, it’s too bad you dress like a color-blind schoolboy, Galchenyuk.” Alex shrugs. He hasn’t the guts to wear the colors PK does, or to wear a hat that’s bigger than all of BC like Price. He has hitting drills to do.

Alex thinks he’s doing ok.

Until PK scrapes to a stop next to Alex’s stick during game warmups, his taped-on _A_ stark against his game sweater. PK works hard enough to be a _C_. The only reason he’s wearing a dummy _A_ is because Frank broke his hand on an asshole’s face and didn’t have enough money in his wallet to post bail so Frank is in a cell and PK is acting assistant captain. Alex looks up from his stretches, “Yeah?”

“These goons the Braves have, they’re out of your weight class. Score a few goals instead.”

Alex looks over his shoulder at Coach, who’s smoking and covering up a dirty magazine with a clipboard, looks back at PK, “And if I get benched?”

“At least you’d have played real hockey. With your head attached,” PK says significantly, raising his eyebrow. That stings a little, for a chirp. It’s good advice. Alex scores a goal, gets three helpers. PK thumps him on the back in between shifts and Alex blames the flush on his face from skating harder in this game than he’s been skating in the last two weeks.

Price gets torched in net when PK isn’t on the ice, making saves that fail despite the way his limbs cover the net because PK was _right_ – he’s the best d-man on the team. Alex’s old man would be appalled at how the defense barely cooperates with each other. PK’s the only one to even skate backwards without Price having to _glare_.

How many more cups could the Habs win if they had PK and Carey? They’re not _that_ old. Alex still knows the Habs would insist they’re “full-up” on goalies and defensemen, that they don’t fuck with whatever work and getting two cups work real well with them.

Alex curls his gloved hands into fists.

So maybe he’s stoked and keyed himself up into a burning heat by the time #44 smashes him against the net, shoving his stick in between Price’s legs, shouting “Indian giver!”. Alex spears #44 with his stick right in the breadbasket, meeting his beady eyes with a bladed smirk. #44 smudges Alex against the boards just as fast. Heat works itself right behind his eyes before Alex shakes his gloves off and gets #44 with a punch to the gut, his ribs screaming at him–

#44 cuts Alex’s lip up with his knuckles on his chin. Alex feels blood leaking onto his gums as he grins. Alex yanks his sweater off, making the arena holler and whistle. He zooms in for a nice kidney thump, making #44 spray spit onto the ice between gritted teeth.

The fight ends in a draw.

Price still ruffles his sweat-lank hair at intermission. Alex looks up from taping his knuckles, and gets a real smile from Price before he goes to his shadowed corner. And PK. PK doesn’t say anything but Alex has to press his thighs against his jock to stop his cock from jerking when PK squeezes the back of his neck. Fights always get Alex jumpy, wanting to do more with the blood pounding through his body.

It’s natural.

What isn’t natural is the way Alex fucks into his hand after the game, biting his other hand to keep from making noise. His thighs still twitch from the breakway he almost pulled off, his lip hurt, his cock’s so hot and he’s so close so close–

“Hm,” Price says, crossing his arms over his chest, making Alex clutch his cock like he could hide it, his foreskin slipping against his palm. Fucking hell, Price’s fully dressed and Alex’s balls are _throbbing_. Price nods slowly towards Alex’s hand, his teeth showing like he made a wicked save, “Don’t let me stop you. Babe.”

Alex can’t keep the gasp from escaping between his teeth. He slowly moves his hand, closes his eyes shut when he realizes that Price _isn’t_ going to leave. He touches himself, shaky and slow around the tip and feels the weight of Price’s dark eyes right down to his balls. His neck is hot and his hand keeps slipping over his cock when he comes with a clench all over, spurting onto the tile and into the drain.

Price rakes his hands through Alex’s wet hair, pulling him closer to himself and breathes, “Get dressed. Peeks and I are… treating you to dinner.” He scrapes his thumbnail down Alex’s neck, around the edges of his flush, and slaps him on the ass, like he did a good play.

Alex licks his lips nervously, feeling like _dinner_ , but dresses as fast as he can. Price and PK are waiting for him.

Out in the parking lot, Alex isn’t sure if it’s the orange light overhead that makes it look like PK’s stroking the loose buttons of Price’s shirt. Any other questions in his head disappear in a puff when PK turns towards Alex, his lips quirking up. Alex can barely meet Price’s eyes, and PK’s hand feels so firm on the back of his neck when he leans in and asks him, “What got you so revv’ed up, eh?”

Just because it’s dark doesn’t mean either of them miss Alex’s answering blush.

***

After the dinner, Alex covers the tab, licking malt liquor off his lips as he smirks at PK, “Beat you to it.” PK smiles almost shyly, and Alex makes himself look away. Price leans in, making Alex tilt his head up by _this_ much, and says, “Come with us.”

Alex flicks his eyes over at PK. PK’s the stillest Alex has ever seen him, and Alex resists the urge to palm the back of his neck before he says _yes_. PK relaxes, leaning back against his chair, his starched shirt stretching across his chest as he says, “Still jumpy, Alex?”

It’s the first time PK’s ever used his Christian name, and Alex likes how PK makes it sound, his cheeks faintly warm from the booze and Price tapping his long fingers against his rodeo buckle. Alex squirms in his polyester pants, feeling like they’re too small for the ten pounds and whatever else he’s picked up in Halifax. He gets up and asks Price, “Did you.”

Price’s heavy eyes flick over to PK, sharing a warm look with him, before he drawls, “We share _everything_.” The careful emphasis on that makes Alex think of PK watching him jerk off, of Price and PK pressing him against the sheets as they–

Alex doesn’t know, beyond locker room slang about what they could do to him, what happens between men. He feels like the virgin he hasn’t been since he hit sixteen and Betty Carrol’s cherry. PK presses a reassuring hand on the small of Alex’s back, above the swell of his ass, “I’m a good coach, yeah?”

Price smirks at the way Alex digs his nails against his palms, doesn’t say anything, thank fuck. Alex drags his teeth over his lower lip, “Yeah,” not even trying for bravado under the sweet press of both Price and PK looking at him.

PK and Price share an apartment.

Alex doesn’t know why this surprises him. The click of the deadbolt behind him closes the door on all of the questions Alex really wants to ask-- and means that PK rubs a broad thumb underneath the loose cuff of Alex’s shirt. Alex lets himself be tugged closer, lets PK kiss him, soft like a girl, his eyelids stuttering closed. PK slips his hand in Alex’s hair, breathing a little harder when he pulls away to let Alex touch his mouth with shaky fingers.

Alex makes himself look over to Price, “Do you want a taste too?” with a lot more bravado than his heartbeat’s showing right now. Price strokes his mustache and leers, leaving Alex waving between _wanting_ Price to taste and–

“A little soon to hogtie him, Price,” PK says, draping himself against Price’s side and slipping his fingers through his long hair exactly like how he touched Alex’s hair. Price quirks his eyebrow and a corner of his mouth, and Alex’s never noticed the soft red of his lips before–

Price takes off his belt, the leather stripping through his pants loops with a _shnik_ , and tells Alex, PK, “Get naked, babe.”

Alex strips, leaving his clothes in a heap at the end of the bed-- _their_ bed. He’s naked except for the necklace he got on one of his name days, watching PK and Price take off their clothes. He’s seen them naked in the locker room but it’s his first time getting to really _look_ , to lick his lips at the way PK’s cock thickens and the light flush of pink down Price’s thin chest, the way they look together when Price pinches PK’s nipple. Alex sits down carefully on the edge of the bed, looking at the sheets rucked up probably because Price and PK screwed on this _earlier_ and rubbing his palms over his bare thighs, his cock twitching.

Price pulls PK in for a kiss that looks more like a bite, muffling the quiet moan PK gives up, grinding against him when PK rubs his hips, his hands squeezing Price’s ass. PK tugs on Price’s hair, gets a dark smile for it, and turns to Alex, his eyes flicking down on his cock, “Price doesn’t usually go for blonds.”

Alex leans back on his elbows, swallowing as he tangles his fingers up in the sheets, “I feel flattered then.” Price kneels on the bed, a thigh in between Alex’s legs. “You should,” he says. He scrapes his nails around Alex’s necklace before he kisses him.

Alex kisses back, touching Price’s firm back and almost bites down on his lip when their cocks brush against each other. Price pushes Alex down to the sheets, making Alex feel exactly how _real_ all of those stories of Price rounding up errant cows were, and he breathes, “What should we do to you?”

PK cups Price’s cock, the flush tip of it pushing out between the _O_ of his fingers and thumb, “Blow him, hm?” Alex’s hips jerk, thinking about PK’s mouth, Price’s lips on him. “Look at how much he wants that,” PK says, kissing Price’s neck. Price licks his lips, slips down between Alex’s thighs, rubbing his thumb over the heavy muscle. His mouth brushes against Alex’s cock as he says, “You going to be good, Alex?”

Alex cranes his head down at Price, gurgles out a _yeah_ , making Price smirk before he guides Alex’s cock into his mouth and _sucks_. The shout Alex lets slips is pressed back by PK’s fingers, PK right in his ear as Price’s head bobs on his cock, “Feels good, babe? Look at you getting all pink,” flicking Alex’s nipple with his thumb. Price hums, his eyes pressed closed. Fuck, there’s no way he hasn’t sucked his share of cock before he got Alex’s in his mouth, sure and focused, his fingernails scraping against Alex’s hips.

His thighs quiver around Price, and god, he wants to move, to _fuck_. He has to be good, has to suck on PK’s sturdy fingers as PK keeps touching him, petting his chest like he has tits to feel up and making his cock twitch out more precome against Price’s tongue. Price scrapes his nails over Alex’s pubes, making Alex jerk against both of them, further into the hot clutch of Price’s throat–

Price presses the edge of his teeth carefully against Alex’s cock, his tongue rubbing against his foreskin, and it’s too much, PK holding him still for Price to draw on, held open for both of them–

Alex throws an arm over his face as he comes with shaky breaths and even shakier legs, his thighs sliding off Price’s shoulders and his heels thumping on the floor. Price scrubs his mouth with the back of his hand. Alex tries to remember how to breathe, stroking PK’s hand, his throat dry like he overworked his voice. PK mouths the side of his neck, pulling Alex closer to his chest. Alex looks at Price, up to PK, his spent cock twitching as he says, “What kind of payback d’you want?”

PK presses Alex against the sheets, “Don’t know how fast you want to go,” raising his eyebrows as Alex’s cheeks heat, like Alex’s a girl who has to be talked into touching their cocks. The way Price’s smiling at him feels like a dare, and PK’s cock sticking slightly to the back of Alex’s thigh is a _goad_.

Alex pushes himself against the heavily-scratched headboard, “Come on, PK, do you want me to–” he looks at PK’s cock, heavy and dark, “blow you?” Alex doesn’t know how. PK could talk him through it, like trying to do a trick shot and Price could hold his hair to make sure Alex didn’t get scared at the last minute.

PK curls his hair in Alex’s hair, “As pretty as your mouth is,” he grins, “your ass is even prettier.”

Price strokes Alex’s chest, making Alex tear his gaze away from PK, “Ass fucking isn’t for beginners.” Alex bites his lip, thinking about it. It has to be good, right? At least for the fuck-er, and he wants to be good for PK, for both of _them_.

“Oh, no,” PK says at what must be the look on Alex’s face, “It’s not a competition, Galchenyuk.” Alex shifts onto his knees, “What if I want you to fuck me?”

His voice only stalls out a little on the last part. PK strokes his hand down Alex’s back, skims his fingers over his ass crack, “Don’t over-promise.” Alex still squirms back against the brush of PK’s fingers over his asshole. He licks his lips, feeling like a giant slut with PK and Price on either side of him, like he could do anything to get them to come on him-- _in_ him.

Price strokes Alex’s cock, squeezes it to get his attention-- “You’re gonna take it slow,” he orders. Alex scoffs and gets cut down by Price adding, “I bet you never shoved a couple fingers up your _virgin_ asshole*.”

PK presses his nails against where Alex’s ass meets his thighs, “Don’t fret, I’ll be real sweet to you,” kissing him, “Get on your hands and knees.”

Alex does, his heart thumping hard in his chest. PK kisses his shoulder blade before he kisses even lower, his hands holding Alex’s ass apart and his tongue rubbing against his asshole–

PK hums against the gasp Alex gives up, and Alex refuses to bury his face in his arms like he’s a priss even though he had no idea you could do _that_. Instead, he presses back against PK’s mouth, greedy for more of the hot– _dirty_ – feeling, his knees shifting apart for. Balance. PK sucks on his rim, feeling it flex against his lips, “Like this, Alex?”

Alex’s blood is too heated for him to really catch anything beyond PK’s hands on him, and it takes a few beats for him to ask for more, to get the air to moan when PK pushes his tongue in, like he’s Frenching his ass oh jesus christ. Precome drips from his cock, and Price reaches around to cup it in his hand, “He’s very good, babe.” Alex doesn’t know who Price’s talking to, pants when PK laughs and rubs his fingertip in small circles around his asshole, the spit not nearly enough for him to feel slick. PK spits right on Alex’s asshole, strokes the twitch Alex makes, feeling like he’s being judged, hating himself for hoping for more of PK’s mouth right _there_.

Price squeezes Alex’s cock, “I’ve never seen anyone who needed to be fucked like you,” his voice warm and the softest Alex’s ever heard. Alex thrusts into his hand, whining despite himself, “Please–” Price grips his chin, making soft shushing noises. PK tweaks his nipple into a hard peak, “He’s thought about it, though, eh? Look at how pretty he looks,” making Alex’s already-pink face flush even more, “sure you don’t want to do the honors, Price?”

“Maybe,” Price drawls, “Finger the kid.” Alex licks his lips, thinking he knows what’s going to happen, what fingering means.

Fingering means PK pressing warm vaseline up his ass, slowly, waiting for Alex to stop clenching on the strange burn so he can add more, means that Price looks at them with a hand stroking his cock like he’s thinking how to take him apart with PK, means that he pushes slowly, slowly back onto PK’s one finger and grits his teeth when PK curves his finger like _that_ –

PK breathes, “Fuck, I can see the appeal in being mean,” and that’s _not_ for Alex, that has to be for Price and the dark look in his eyes as he watches PK fuck Alex carefully on three fingers. Alex can’t control any part of his body, can’t do anything but moan and gasp as his asshole stretches around those thick fingers. His cock keeps getting hard and soft, just as confused as the rest of his body. His thighs tremble, get soothed by PK. Shit, when PK thrusts in hard, Alex whimpers into the pillow, his ass thrusting up in what he doesn’t want to call hope.

“Your face, babe,” PK says, stroking the back of his neck, “I wish I could see it, must be so good to get Price hard. Loving it, yeah?”

Alex nods against the pillow, sweat beaded around his forehead. PK twists his fingers in, hooks them on the rim when he pulls out, laughing at Alex’s strangled gasp. PK shifts on the bed. Alex doesn’t dare look behind his shoulder. He doesn’t want to ruin this, wants PK to tell him he’s perfect, and it’s easier if he can smudge his tears into the pillow anyways.

Getting fucked is big.

PK is slow. Gentle. Doesn’t mean Alex isn’t shivering and begging for him to _move_ because his asshole is clenching and a dull ache is ringing up and down his spine. He clings to the sheets, breathing hard like a really bad bag skate, feeling how much thicker PK is than him _all_ over, rocking and out to the easy rhythm of his hips. Alex opens the split in his lip when PK strokes over that spot, again and again, his mouth leaking blood and spit onto the pillow as his balls draw up and twitch–

PK strokes Alex’s hair, pressing him down against the pillow gently as he thrusts _deeper_ into him. PK’s so hot inside his ass, stroking in and god, he hopes this is what girls feel like. Price smears the thin drops of blood around Alex’s lips, breathes, “Yeah, Galchenyuk,” his cock hard enough for Alex to feel the heat. Alex pants, shouts when PK slams into him, his balls up against his cleft. Price smiles, and circles his fingers around where PK’s fucking into Alex, “You’re a good boy.”

Getting come into, hot and wet, just when Alex feels like he could come again, makes him howl out of frustration. PK laughs, stroking his cock ruthlessly until he does come, pushing his own come even further up Alex’s ass with those sweet rocks, kissing his sweaty hair as he wrings him out. PK eases out of him slowly, breathing hard, “You good?”

Alex swallows, grimaces at the blood in his mouth, “Yeah,” and tries to smile. PK leans in to kiss him, and Alex hates himself for liking how careful PK kisses, how softly. He kisses back anyways, feeling clumsy and overheated. Price kisses PK, then Alex, and leans back against the headboard, his cock still hard. PK strokes Alex’s arm, “Want to blow him?”

Price’s looking at him like another dare. Alex licks his lips, looking down at Price’s cock, and up at his face, “PK  
needs to coach me.” The smirk on Price’s face matches the little flare of heat in his eyes, and. Yeah. Alex can see why PK would call him _mean_.

Bitch of it, though, it still makes Alex scoot down the bed and put his mouth on the thin skin of Price’s cock. PK strokes Price’s thighs, tells him to _behave_. Alex flicks his eyes up at them, sucks carefully, just like Price did to him. He hasn’t stopped blushing since they all got naked, and the way PK tells him to lick more, to flick his tongue across the tip, makes him feel even hotter and pricklier–

Price sighs when Alex slips further onto his cock, his hand heavy on his head. Alex hums, just like he thinks PK would, gets a _jesus christ, babe_ for it. It’s an easy push for Alex to stroke Price with his mouth, sucking and licking clumsily until Price tenses under him and comes on his cheek.

PK strokes Price’s come off his face. PK feeds Alex the come, his thumb lingering on his mouth, and they both smirk down at Price for looking a little glazed.

Alex wants to do it again. Hopes they do too.

He trudges back to his hotel, feeling warm and achy and hoping that Price’ll get to show him how mean he is and that PK can hold him down again and–

There’s a message at the front desk. Montreal wants Alex back.

***

Montreal looks very good after trudging over 1500 kilometers on the Trans-Canada highway. Alex is the sort of tired that means reporting to the front office is actually easier than begging a bed from one of the boys here. The Forum is still haunted, a faint whiff of smoke making Alex’s eyes water.

Management receives him with icy greetings. They comment positively on his fighting, his weight, but let him go down to the equipment room to get outfitted a little too quickly for Alex to really hope for a long stay in Montreal. Alex nods at the GM. His new suit, picked out in shades of red and navy, feels like a powerful coat of armor. The stare the GM gives him just bounces off, the limp wrist the GM keeps looking for even more obvious after Alex’s ridden two very attractive cocks–

Pretending to be someone else more confident-- to be PK-- works on the suits. Alex’s sure it won’t fly in Gally’s equipment workshop.

Gally had reminded Alex of an illustration of Puck the first time they met, short and with a cheeky grin that Gally probably thinks drives the girls out of their minds. He’s no less _puckish_ when he takes in Alex’s new suit and drawls, “I’m so happy you’re finally fucking your way to happiness and better fashion.”

Alex doesn’t cringe. Two for flinching. Gally says even worse during intermissions anyways. He says flatly, “My gear.”

“My story,” Gally says, rubbing his fingers over lumber cut _long_ enough for Alex. Alex snorts, “Are you a leprechaun? Would explain the height–”

“Fuck you, Russkie,” Gally says breezily, “You look way too happy. Any cute cunts in Halifax shove themselves in your face? Gotta spill.”

Three weeks ago Alex wouldn’t have a defense besides sputtering and telling Gally what a giant cunt _he_ was. Three weeks can be a long time. Turns out he did learn a few things out in Halifax. Even if they’re more appropriate to his nickname of Ferdinand the Bull than, say, Marcel Bonin. Alex leans against the door, “You ever gonna spill about you and Prust?”

It’s a guess, a shot in the dark. Gally freezes, his face coloring brick red then chalk pale, and only gets normal color back when Alex smirks at him. Alex can see the little hamster wheel spin in Gally’s head as he narrows his eyes and whistles.

“School of dick!” Gally thrusts his hips, “Damn,” he pauses, taking in Alex, “this kinda explains a lot.”

Alex scrapes his faint stubble, “Eh.” Gally leaps up from his squat desk to close the door behind Alex and elbow him onto a broken bench. Gally tugs on the light right above Alex’s head, rubbing his hands together like they’re around a campfire.

“Talk.”

Alex talks.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr!](http://hastybooks.tumblr.com)


End file.
